A House Divided
by AutumnMTC
Summary: Entering a child's mind is unethical and unpredictable. The team needs to pull out all of their resources and call in favors to make sure nothing goes wrong on this job. Arthur's best resource just so happens to be Ariadne.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- I haven't written anything for Inception in a very long time, but I couldn't get this beginning out of my head. I know it's short and stunted, but it has the potential to become something much more. I can lengthen it later. If you guys like it, let me know. Maybe I'll actually flesh something out.**

**Disclaimer- I do not own **_**Inception**_**.**

* * *

There are days when she feels trapped. _Suffocated_. Drained of all the things that made her life interesting.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Her current life as a college student pales in comparison to the vibrant and exuberant world of shared dreaming. Instead of building fantastic mazes in impossible locations, she turns in her homework. Instead of racing down imaginary metropolitan streets in the pouring rain, she attends class. Instead of seeing her teammates every day, she trades empty smiles back and forth with her roommate on the off chance they actually see each other.

She craves it—the feeling of creating something out of nothing. Playing God. Maneuvering through a person's mind as easily as she would the aisles in a grocery store. With every passing day, her hope of sharing another dream becomes fainter. Occasionally, she has a small blossom of hope that comes in the form of hearing a British accent in the marketplace or seeing a pair of children that look suspiciously like James and Phillipa. She's learned to stop getting her hopes up at the sight of a well-kept man in a suit—that happens too often in this part of the city. It only sets her up for disappointment.

She sat by her phone day and night after she returned to Paris from her excursion to Los Angeles. She expected the call. She yearned for it. Dreamt about it. It never came, though. She spent the next year in her own personal limbo, not really processing what was happening around her or even bringing herself to care about any of it. She couldn't. Instead, she devoted herself to schoolwork and finishing up her degree.

It is exactly one year, three months, and twenty-one days after touching down at the airport in Los Angeles. Ariadne is in her university library, sitting at a table nestled in between the towering bookshelves near the psychology section in the very back. The light isn't great, but the smell of musty pages reminds her that she is in the oldest section of the library and, more importantly, away from prying eyes. The foot traffic is minimal at best. The only people she sees are two older students browsing through some shelves about thirty feet away from her, not paying her a bit of attention. The only interaction they have is the offering of a "bless you" after she sneezes. She thanks him and they go back to their separate tasks.

She shouldn't be doing this, but she doesn't care. As she delves back into the book laid out in front of her, she takes notes over the theoretical practices used by therapists and the US military. Shared dreaming is a difficult subject to track down in such an enormous library. She's lucky she found this book at all. There's an entire chapter on shared dreaming and how it was a "failed" experiment that ended up driving the test subjects crazy. _If only they knew. _

The library is suddenly quiet. It takes Ariadne a moment to notice the change. She places one last post-it note in the margin of the book and closes it gently, not wanting to break the illusion the silence has provided. She looks around. The fans above her are slowly coming to a halt, despite the fact that it's still quite warm in this back section of the library. Frowning, she turns in her seat and opens her mouth to ask the two men that were previously standing over by the shelves devoted to Freud, but the words die before leaving her mouth. There's no one to be seen in any direction. For some unknown reason, Ariadne becomes uneasy. She feels very alone and very exposed—a feeling she hasn't had since the airport after the Fischer job. Without making a sound, she faces forward in her chair and reaches down to grab her bag.

Ariadne is interrupted by a pressure on her shoulder. The man's grip is firm and warm, but the contact still makes her jump in her seat and suppress a shriek. Illusion of silence broken, she turns violently to chastise whoever it is that's touching her, but her brain short-circuits before any sound escapes.

_This isn't real._

"Didn't expect to see you here," Arthur murmurs, taking the seat next to her. He sets his bag on the floor against a table leg and leans back on the feet of his chair, the picture of relaxation. His hair is still immaculate and slicked back, but his typical three-piece suit has been replaced by a brown leather jacket over a dark green button-up and jeans. The outfit makes him look younger. More relaxed. More like a college student. _One that belongs in this library_. Ariadne has trouble remembering to breathe.

_It's been too long—this can't be real._

"Ar-," she begins, a thousand questions forming in her brain. A gentle pressure on her toes makes her mouth clamp shut, however. She holds his gaze with unabashed shock and tries to communicate with him silently. _What are you doing here how did you find me why are you here is everything okay? _Ariadne gets the feeling that he understands what she's trying to ask, but disregards it for the time being.

Arthur takes his foot off of hers and leans forward, casually pulling her book over in front of him. He leans over it, flips it open to her marked page, and begins to scan the section about shared dreaming, quietly asking, "What time are you going to dinner?"

"Five," she blurts out, not processing any of this.

Arthur nods approvingly and exhales deeply, his eyes looking over the post-it notes placed in key places of the text. If he is surprised about her research on shared dreaming, he does not show it. Instead, he pushes the book back over to her and makes eye contact once again. With a lightness that does not match his expression, he says, "I think I'm going to miss dinner tonight. They scheduled me to work."

"Work," Ariadne repeats dumbly. Her fingers grow numb from holding onto the edges of her chair. _This isn't happening, this isn't happening._

"You should drop by if you feel like it. A visit is always nice."

Ariadne nods stiffly, swallowing down the knot in her throat. "I'll see what I have planned. No promises."

A small smile plays at the corners of Arthur's mouth and his dark eyes twinkle with something she can't quite put her finger on. Nostalgia? She's not sure. At this point, she doesn't care. All she knows is that Arthur has come looking for her and is asking to meet her at the warehouse. If she hadn't left her totem at home, she would have tipped it over at least a dozen times by now.

Arthur's demeanor changes. The change is subtle, but swift. His eyes harden just a fraction and he purposely looks off in the direction of the emergency fire exit before looking back to Ariadne. "You look like you're finished with studying. I'll walk you back to your apartment."

Ariadne understands and nods, gathering her things and shouldering her bag in the most casual manner she can manage. With all that is happening, her brain is in overdrive and can't help the jerkiness of her movements as she stands with Arthur. He still towers over her just like she remembers, but something is wrong about the situation. It's not just his abnormal fashion choices, either. She tenses a little bit as Arthur takes her elbow and directs her at the fire exit, making sure that she walks in front of him.

Something is very wrong. She knows it even before it happens.

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**Love it? Hate it? Please tell me so I know whether or not to pursue this. Thanks a lot!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm rusty. Please forgive any errors.**

* * *

For exactly one year, three months, and twenty-one days, Ariadne has not experienced true fear. Her life in Paris has been easy. Practically a vacation. After experiencing the possibility of being trapped in limbo for an indefinite amount of time, nothing else inspires fear quite the same way.

That is the only reason Ariadne doesn't start panicking.

In an instant, a flurry of commotion erupts in the library. Out of the corner of an eye, Ariadne sees the two men from earlier who had excused her sneeze. They do not look like innocent grad students anymore—no, they are definitely _not _grad students, she realizes fearfully. Grad students don't carry handguns in their jackets.

Before she can react, Arthur's once-pleasant grip on her elbow transforms into a vicious yank. He pulls her behind the closest bookshelf just as an encyclopedia explodes where her head has previously been. Ariadne's ears start to ring, turning the screams of the other students in the references section into nothing more than murmurs. _This feels too real to be a dream. Even a shared dream. _

Arthur's lips move, forming words that she can't seem to hear. Is he asking her a question? Telling her to do something? She isn't sure. She just shakes her head at him, confused. As her hearing gradually comes back, terrifying noises permeate the air, making her wish that her ears would keep on ringing forever.

Unrelenting gunshots erupt from the other side of the room, but Arthur doesn't seem to hear them. His eyes are trained on her, his own pistol primed and ready to be emptied into one of the assailants at a moment's notice, should the need arise. Where had he pulled the gun from? Had he been _expecting_ a fight? Memories of the Fischer job come flooding to the forefront of her mind. Ariadne feels nauseated. Luckily, Arthur's firm grip on her elbow keeps her anchored, helping her to stay focused on standing instead of passing out.

_Pass out later. Stay alive right now. _

"Ariadne," Arthur urges, his brow furrowing in concern. He has to yell to be heard over the sporadic gunfire and screaming. "Is the fire exit the only way ou-"

"Yes," she interrupts, matching the loudness of his voice to be heard over the deafening noise of the library. That must've been what he had been asking before, she realizes. "It leads out to the south parking lot."

"We've got to get across the aisle," he shouts back. The crease between his eyebrows becomes more pronounced as he thinks of a way out. He seems to come up with an idea, but his grim expression makes her stomach twist. "I've got a plan."

"Am I going to like it?"

"Not really, no. Get down!"

Before she can even process what "get down" could possibly mean, she's already been thrown to the ground by Arthur. The cold tile floor smashes against her face and she feels the skin split open over her cheekbone. Stars cloud her vision. The nauseous feeling from earlier comes back with a vengeance, but she swallows it back down, squeezing her eyes shut to will the stars away. _Pass out later, stay alive right now. _Her body listens to her.

Ariadne rises to her hands and knees, crawling to the other end of the bookshelf in the direction that Arthur had unceremoniously thrown her. She assumes that what he wants her to do, at least. Palms stinging and knees crying out in pain, she crawls forward until she reaches the end of the literature aisle before turning around to find Arthur. He's still there, standing with his back against the bookshelf, occasionally turning peeking around the corner to return fire. He doesn't even flinch as he squeezes off his shots, his eyes narrowed in familiar determination. Ariadne is bloody, bruised, and terrified, but she also feels at home amongst the chaos, bullets notwithstanding.

The hand appears out of nowhere right as the fire alarm goes off. The timing couldn't be worse. Sprinklers immediately douse the entire library, soaking and plastering her hair against her face. Ariadne is roughly yanked to her feet by a strong masculine arm that wraps itself around her neck. She gasps for air loudly and scrabbles at the man's arm, trying to get her fingers in between them to pry herself loose. The water makes his skin slippery, though, and his grip only seems to tighten. Realizing that her feet are free gives her an idea, though. In a last ditch effort, she kicks wildly and sends a few sopping books of English literature to the floor with a reverberating _thud_ that manages to catch his attention.

He feels the vibration through his feet and turns toward her, eyes widening a fraction of an inch before he schools his expression back to its usual intense focus. She kicks and screams behind the man's hand, even going so far as to bite his palm. The man doesn't release her—he just grunts and presses his fingers harder against her face to keep her quiet. His thumb is pressed against the split skin on her cheek. It doesn't exactly feel pleasant.

Arthur doesn't seem to notice _her_, though. Only the man holding her. His hair is soaking wet and hanging down in his eyes for once, making him look more unkempt than she has ever seen him before. This relaxed, unusual style of his hair makes him look younger—and much more reckless.

He almost looks bored as he raises his gun and points it at both of them. Instinctively, Ariadne jerks and struggles more in her captor's arms, letting loose a string of muffled curse words that she knows he doesn't understand.

"Let the girl go," Arthur says. Simple. Cold. _Menacing. _

"Or what?" her captor asks, his grating voice right by her ear. "You're going to shoot me? You're out of bullets in that clip, mate."

"Am I?"

Ariadne feels her captor's body tense behind her, suddenly unsure. It is a simple question, really. Or, at least, it _sounded_ simple when he said it. Underneath his relaxed tone, however, was a silent question: _are you sure? _Ariadne recognizes the tactic from the first lesson she had ever had with Dom and Arthur after being picked for the Fischer Job—how to plant a seed. Sowing doubt in someone' mind always boils down to asking them a question to make them think twice. Once they doubt themselves, you have room to wiggle, find weaknesses, and exploit them. Knowing his plan, Ariadne begins to relax, but her mind is quickly filled with worry. On the bright side, the seed of doubt seems to be taking root, just as Arthur planned. However, reverting to this tactic probably means that the man was right before—Arthur _is_ out of bullets.

Ariadne's captor clears his throat. "Even if you aren't out, you wouldn't risk hitting the girl by accident."

"The girl is of no consequence," he shoots back, still the picture of relaxation. In her own mind, Ariadne begins to doubt the strength of their past relationship. Would he actually risk shooting her?

Ariadne feels her captor hesitate, his grip on her mouth loosening ever-so-slightly. Her hopes of being released are squashed, however, by a sudden renewed vigor in the man's grip. The seed didn't take. The arm around her neck tightens, as does the hand clamped over her mouth. She winces and struggles as his fingers press hard into her cheeks.

"You killed my friend over there," the man remarks coldly, jerking his chin to the other side of the room. "I think I'm going to get even by starting with this girl."

"I wouldn't," Arthur replies, gun not wavering an inch. Ariadne wishes she could scream at him to either shoot the man or come up with another plan, but her vision begins to swim. _Can't breathe. _

"If you had bullets, you'd have shot us already," the man observes, sounding smug.

Ariadne's eyes begin to drift shut, her breath coming out in shallow wheezes. She knows she won't last much longer. However, before she can slip into unconsciousness, Arthur lowers his gun to his side and drops it in the puddle that's forming at his feet. "You're right. I don't have any shots left."

Ariadne's vision fills with floating spots and she feels lightheaded. _I don't think I've ever felt this tired before. Maybe if I just go with it…_

"But _he_ does."

A loud gunshot comes from somewhere behind her, but she's too numb to care about anything aside from her darkening vision. Before she can completely slip into unconsciousness, the arm around her neck goes slack and they both fall to the floor like ragdolls. Ariadne clips her head against a bookshelf on the way down and more pain explodes behind her eyes with white-hot intensity. She moans and curls into the fetal position, silently cursing the day she ever met Arthur. Her captor must be somewhere behind her in silence, obviously dead. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut so she can't see his corpse. _That's enough trauma for one afternoon_, she thinks.

Ariadne feels a pair of strong, familiar arms slip beneath her and lift her up. Normally, she would object to being carried like a damsel in distress, but under the circumstances she allows herself to play the part. Her vision swims as Arthur adjusts her body against his chest and begins to carry her toward the fire exit. Together, they burst through the door and briskly walk down the stairs toward an inconspicuously-parked vehicle across the empty Parisian street. The dry December chill cuts through Ariadne's sopping clothes like they're not there at all. She shivers violently in Arthur's arms and fights back another wave of nausea.

"Where _were_ you?" His chest vibrates against her shoulder, accusation ripe in his voice.

"I was saving your ass. A little gratitude would be nice."Ariadne's head snaps up toward the familiar English voice.

"_You're right," _she remembers Arthur saying. "_I don't have any shots left…but _he _does."_

Eames looks the same as he did the day they got off the plane in Los Angeles, out-of-place casual clothes notwithstanding. The only difference is the stress and worry present in the harsh lines around his eyes, which are deceptively cheery as he looks at her. He's carrying an assault rifle in his hands—it's probably the gun that saved her life, she realizes. He smiles at her as he begins to dismantle the gun.

"Lovely to see you, my dear," Eames says. "We've missed you more than you know."

Finally succumbing to shock and the blistering headache behind her eyes, Ariadne passes out.

* * *

The car ride is piercingly silent on the way to the safe house. Eames sits in the passenger seat and Arthur drives, each of them finding other things to do besides talk about the events of the evening. Arthur silently wishes Eames would break the uncomfortable silence first—he's always been better at that. Eames doesn't appear too keen on doing so, however, so Arthur contents himself with checking the backseat every few seconds.

The passing streetlamps illuminate the car like a slow heartbeat, allowing Arthur to peer into his rearview mirror at Ariadne's unconscious form in the backseat. Every time a new streetlamp illuminates her battered, sleeping face, he feels a pang of guilt. The night wasn't supposed to go off like it did—Arthur was supposed to pick her up, take her home to pack a few necessities, and get her out of Paris before anyone caught them. In his haste to find her and make sure she was safe, he had missed some important details. Arthur doesn't blame Eames for being mad at him. Arthur's mad at _himself_.

In the back, Ariadne's brow furrows and she murmurs something unintelligible before turning over on the seat. Unconsciously, Arthur steps on the gas a little more. The sooner she's cleaned up and awake, the sooner he's going to feel better.

Eames decides to have mercy on Arthur. "That could've gone better."

"Understatement."

"She's going to be pissed when she wakes up. I hope you realize that most of the yelling is going to be directed at you."

Arthur's grip on the steering wheel tightens until his scraped knuckled begin to hurt. "Yeah, I had a feeling."

"Not exactly the reunion you'd been hoping for, hmm?"

"Not exactly," Arthur admits, forcing himself to relax his hold on the wheel. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror once more, watching Ariadne's face as she sleeps. The cut on her cheek shouldn't need stiches, he thinks. At least, he hoped it wouldn't. She'd never struck him as vain when they worked together, but he could imagine she'd be a little angry if their encounter that day had scarred her both emotionally _and _physically. "She'll come around."

Eames snorts, leaning his seat back a few inches as he says, "You hope. I don't think you've been around women in a while, mate. They tend to hold grudges, if you haven't heard."

"She's not exactly a normal woman."

"Oh, and _there_ it is," Eames exclaims, turning to look at Arthur with a grin. He punches his shoulder playfully. "No wonder you wanted to be the one to go in and get her. You've still got feelings for her."

"It's hard to 'still have feelings' for a person you never had feelings for in the first place."

"She was rather fond of you, if I recall."

"Nothing happened. We just work together."

"That's what they all say," Eames says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "I bet you kept tabs on her after the Fischer job."

"Eames, drop it," Arthur snaps. Eames raises both eyebrows and holds up his hands in surrender, leaning back in his seat. Arthur runs a frustrated hand through his already-messy hair and grits his teeth. "She's tough. She won't hold it against me once she knows this was all for her safety. She'll be reasonable."

"Reasonable women don't exist."

"She _will_ be reasonable," Arthur insists. "She won't hate me."

"Oh no?" Eames asks. "If you're so sure, why do you keep looking back there every five seconds with that face?"

"What face?"

"That one," he answers, stabbing a finger in his face. "Right there. I swear, you look like a puppy who's been left out in the rain."

Arthur doesn't say anything, choosing instead to keep his eyes forcibly fixed on the road. He knows Eames is right—he's been looking at Ariadne's unconscious face for the last half hour, terrified that she'll wake up and look at him with the expression she'd had when he first saw her. Shock, confusion, fear, and anger had all crossed her face in a matter of minutes. Worst of all, though, she'd looked at him like he was a complete stranger to her. _Maybe I am a stranger at this point_, he thinks grimly. Arthur may have been keeping an eye on her activity for the past year, but he had no idea if she had ever attempted to find him.

Eames is watching him, waiting for him to come up with a counterargument. He doesn't have one. Sighing, Arthur quietly admits, "Is it really so wrong for me to feel bad? I didn't mean to drag her through all that."

Eames senses the mood shift and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. He frowns. "Christ, Arthur, I'm not trying to guilt you. I've rarely ever seen a situation get away from you like that. You're an anal twerp when it comes to planning things out. This was just a freak accident and I'm sure she knows that. When she wakes up, we'll get her cleaned up and then start the apology game. All right?"

"Yeah," Arthur murmurs, stealing a quick glance at Ariadne once again. "All right."

"Arthur," Eames says. He sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder, looking at him with a rare solemn expression. "We got her. She's alive, which is more than we expected to find in the first place. It's all going to work out. Just like old times, right?"

"I hope not," Arthur says. He thinks of the Fischer job and how close they had come to being trapped there. _Too close._

"Oh, cheer up, Johnny Raincloud. This is going to be fun."

_Fun, _he thinks. _I think we have very different definitions of the word 'fun'._

* * *

**I can finish this if you guys want me to. Just let me know. (Remember, my writing skills are rusty. Forgive me.)**


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